


What Next?

by Britpacker



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the question that's been bothering them both. It can't be avoided any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Next?

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been deliberately avoiding all spoilers, please read no further. This story will comprehensively give away the location of Episode One. If you're not bothered, this is my take on a necessary conversation between new-old friends.

“He’s still the Doctor, Clara. You of all people know that.” Madame Vastra regarded the young human in the ridiculously short skirt Jenny would suit so well – if she would only agree to try such a scandalous thing - over the gilded rim of her teacup. Fiddling nervously with her cuffs, Clara Oswald sighed.

“He is and he isn’t,” she said helplessly, one eye on the familiar blue box inside which the man she used to know, with his new face, new accent and very new attitude was doing heaven-only-knew what. “I understand what regeneration means, but I don’t understand _him_ any more. I _knew_ him better than I thought I knew anyone else and now he’s a stranger. I just can’t handle that.”

“Not completely.” The Silurian set her cup aside only for Jenny to gather it away and run from the dark garden into their tiny kitchen to wash up. “When you were afraid, you called for him, and he came. He always comes for you, Clara. You still trust him, whether you realise it or not.”

Did she? Clara closed her brown eyes, summoning the image of the Doctor – _her_ Doctor – in that last moment before he’d disappeared forever. She’d never doubted him, not for a second. Had always _known_.

“Every new incarnation needs time to settle,” Vastra said gently, as if she were reading her thoughts (which Clara wouldn’t honestly have put past her). “Imagine having every atom of your body tear apart and re-form; imagine developing a completely new personality – new likes and dislikes, a new voice and vocabulary in an instant. It’s a difficult experience for a Time Lord; even one as old and experienced as the Doctor.”

“I don’t know what he’s going to _do_ any more.”

“Probably neither does he.” Strax muttered something but the Silurian ignored him, glancing beyond Clara’s ducked head to the TARDIS on the small lawn. “And I doubt he knows what you're going to do, either.”

The brunette scowled. “He seems pretty sure of himself to me!”

“Don’t see why that should bother you, Miss.” Jenny squeezed herself onto the wall beside Vastra and smiled cheekily. “He’ll lead you a merry dance, that one! Mad as a bagful of monkeys but you’ll never be bored, will you?”

Before anyone could think of answering the night’s peace was cracked by the familiar creaking of the TARDIS door. A shaft of light cut dazzlingly down the garden path before being momentarily blocked by a long, slim shadow.

Clara’s puckered mouth fell into a perfect _O_ as she surveyed her new-old friend. Dapper. Oddly elegant. Even – possibly – just a little bit dashing. “Suits you,” was all she could think of to say.

“Thanks.” Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, the Doctor leaned back against the TARDIS and regarded her with unwonted solemnity. Clara cleared her throat. Set down her teacup.

“Suppose we should be going, then,” she said.

“Probably.” He made no move, just kept watching her with those wide grey eyes that seemed to see straight through her soul. He pursed his lips; cocked one dark grey eyebrow. “Where to?”

Vulnerable. She’d seen him like that before, but never with this face. This man oozed assurance and determination; a self-confidence she both feared and envied. To see him like this, more boyish in his uncertainty somehow than his last, professionally gauche, self had ever been…. It broke her tender heart.

Pushing herself off the low wall Clara folded her arms and grinned. The Doctor tilted his lofty head, but despite the puzzled gesture she could read the hope that flared across his mobile, expressive older features. 

“We never got to ancient Mesopotamia,” she said, deliberately casual.

He blinked. Swallowed hard. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Let you down on future Mars as well, didn’t I?” he ventured.

“And the Moon,” she agreed.

From being shrivelled in a cold ball her heart had begun to swell so much she actually feared for her ribcage. “Sorry,” he said, and for the first time, despite the lighter tone, she thought he might just mean it. “I’m a bit unreliable that way. So…”

“So,” she echoed, the grin that stretched across her face beginning to physically endanger her delicate lower jaw. 

The gang were clustered at her back, shuffling. Jenny was audibly struggling to smother her giggles. Yet to Clara is seemed she and the Doctor were the only beings in the universe. 

“Where first?” he asked.

She forced her mouth back into a pout; he’d always smiled when she did that, and one thing at least hadn’t changed. “The Moon,” she said confidently.

“Humans!” He pushed himself upright with a grace his previous self couldn’t have hoped to match, his smile as brilliant as the starry sky itself. “You offer them the whole of time and space, and what do they ask for? That boring chunk o’ rock they can see from their bedroom windows!”

“It’s because we can see it that we actually want to go there, thanks very much!” Mock indignation wasn’t easy to maintain with a laugh welling up in her throat but Clara didn’t care. He still wanted her with him.

And oh, she wanted to stay!

“In that case, m’lady, your chariot awaits.” He swept a low, ridiculously stylish bow as he shoved open the TARDIS door, airily inviting her to lead the way. Sauntering past, Clara gave his extended arm a playful swat.

“Idiot!” she muttered.

As he shut the door behind them and assaulted the console with all the vigour of a five-year-old at the biscuit tin she felt happy, guilty tears begin to prickle at the backs of her eyes. In spite of everything, still _her_ idiot. 

He grinned at her across the console, exuberantly flicking a couple of levers. “Mesopotamia next, though?” he asked hopefully. “Or Persia – loads of fun to be had in Persia, so long as you keep clear of King Xerxes of course - bumped into his mob at Thermopylae once; very nearly cost me an eye. You all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” He cocked one of those amazingly expressive eyebrows at her and Clara dashed impatiently at her wet eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s just a bit _weird_ , you being so different and all that, but I’m getting there. You’re not bad, really.”

“Thanks.” His last self might have been put out; she couldn’t help but wonder how the other one – Sandshoes - would have responded. This Doctor, it seemed, could take the truth as easily as he could dish it out. 

If nothing else Jenny was right. Life with him around was certainly going to be interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> One character gets no more than a mention, you'll notice: that's because I find our Sontaran friend pretty well impossible to get a handle on. And I'm hoping, from the hints we're getting about a "madder, fiercer, less knowable" Doctor, that Twelve's characterisation isn't massively off the mark!


End file.
